


Stacked

by zjofierose



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Books, Library Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would Gatsby say?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stacked

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt from the darling lousy_science, and it's very, very overdue. The prompt went something like "Chris bent over a shelving trolley", and I took her at her word.

Chris wakes with a jerk, his left arm bumping the book in his lap to the floor. The clatter echoes throughout the stacks, noise bouncing off the eight-foot metal shelves and the linoleum floor.

Silence.

He rubs his eyes blearily, stretching in an involuntary arch as his neck cracks in protest. He's got no idea how long he's been passed out in the Lit section, but it must have been a while, if the state of his vertebrae is any indication. He yawns widely and smacks his lips, pulling a face; his mouth tastes like he's been snoring. Thank heaven for his water bottle; apparently the library's beloved dehumidifiers have left him with a delightful case of cotton mouth. Fortunately Berkeley has exceptional water, and he tips his head back greedily as he takes a long draw from the metal bottle, excess dripping down his chin to dampen the collar of his t-shirt.

He picks up the book from where it's fallen to the floor. There's a smeary damp spot on one of the bawdy illustrations from where he'd drooled on it. Falling asleep reading Fanny Hill has to be a new low; he'll have to see if he can sneak this copy out and replace it with a new one.

It only occurs to him to wonder what the time is when the lights click off, and the stacks are plunged into darkness.

Shit.

He fishes for his phone, flipping it open to read the glowing numbers: 12:02. _Dammit_. What the hell does he do now? He uses the backlight of the phone collect his books and shove them into his bag, pushing the abused copy of Fanny to the bottom. It's not like his little secluded corner here isn't nice enough, but he really was hoping to get something to eat before 8am tomorrow.

Goddammit. This was not in the plans.

Man, his roommates are never going to let him live this down. They've already been teasing him like crazy about all the time he spends "studying". They're gonna laugh for days over him getting locked in.

Yes, admittedly, he may have been here a few more hours than normal in the past few months. Or, you know, a lot more hours than normal. And it may just coincide with the first time he noticed the basement student librarian. Or, you know, the basement student librarian's truly amazing legs. And his hands, with those long fingers that look so strong, and the dark hair that tufts out of the collar of his plaid shirt. Or his absurdly beautiful eyes, salted caramel behind black frame glasses of the most pretentious degree. Or his wicked mouth, all full lips and too-white teeth when Chris caught him wrapping those lips around the end of a mostly-smoked cigarette.

What the hell, though, it's been great for his grades.

He flips his phone shut; the backlight has turned itself off, and he's got everything picked up anyway. His eyes have adjusted enough to the dim streetlight shine filtering in from the window-wells that he thinks he won't knock into anything. He shoves it in his pocket and heaves himself out of the battered old arm chair with a creak. He's not sure if there are any exits he can go out without triggering an alarm, but he may as well have a look around and see if he can find one. If nothing else, he's going to raid the library desk for snacks.

He's slinging his bag over his shoulder when he hears it; the squeak of a sneaker on the linoleum. He freezes, heart pounding. The blood roars in his ears as he slowly lowers his bag to the floor, the hair on the back of his neck rising as the sound comes again.

It's closer this time.

He sinks into a slight crouch, his jeans straining at the knees as he begins to turn slowly, his heart in his throat. There's the sound again, nearly upon him, and he spins in time to see the flash of streetlight on a pair of glasses. His hand goes involuntarily to his chest to clutch at his pounding heart as his brain parses the face in front of him. He opens his mouth to speak, but one long finger rises from the murk into the thin beam of light and presses itself to his lips in the universal gesture for silence.

There's what might be a twinkle in the one dark eye he can see behind the dark frames, and his breath catches in his throat, making him swallow convulsively, pressing his mouth more firmly against that slim finger denting his lips. He can smell the scent of dust and paper on the tip where it rests just below his nose, and he knows his eyes are bugging out of his head as the owner of said appendage steps his full body forward into Chris' personal space.

It's him, it's Sexy Basement Librarian, and Chris' brain does its level best to short circuit straight into oblivion. He opens his mouth again, and the other guy twitches an eyebrow at him that has Chris weak in the knees and tight at the crotch. Chris can smell him; the air in the stacks is still and warm, and the unmistakable musk of another warm male body is surrounding him, filling his nostrils with the peculiar scent of books and skin and what must be Sexy Basement Librarian Aftershave. It's intoxicating, and Chris feels his nostrils flare instinctively, pulling it in, letting the scent stimulate his hind brain to sink blood into his dick, raising the hair on his arms.  
The other guy takes a step even closer, settling the toes of his Converse on either side of Chris' ratty flip-flops as he leans in.

There's a moment when Chris could pull away, if he wanted to, but he's so far past caring if this is dream or fantasy or Candid Camera set-up that the thought doesn't even cross his mind. He's leaning in before he even notices it, tipping his head just slightly as the finger pulls away from his mouth, leaving his lips momentarily bereft. He's almost sad at the loss, but only almost, and only for a heartbeat, because the finger is immediately replaced with a mouth that presses into his, wet and warm and licking into his own without so much as a pretense at chastity.

Sexy Basement Librarian tastes like everything that is awesome in the world: coffee, cigarettes, and a hint of booze that says he's got a flask stashed away somewhere. Chris wants to pat him down, see if he can find it. His brain is stuttering into overdrive, spinning through nonsense and straight into flat out fantasy as he feels a hand clutch his hip. Sexy Basement Librarian's tongue is long, and his stubble rough, and Chris kisses him back like it's a competition, opening his mouth and sucking in a lip to nibble.

It's silent except for their breathing, the air conditioner having clicked off hours ago. He can hear them panting, SBL's breath echoing as he pulls away to sink his teeth into the corner of Chris' jaw, making him shiver and involuntarily rise onto his tiptoes. His fingers wind into the front of the plaid cotton work shirt, and it's a straight-up sin that it took him so long to lay his hands on the other man's chest, because it is firm and lean and warm under the palms of his hands. Chris shoves his fingers along the planes of Librarian's sternum, feeling out the edges of his clavicles, pressing the heel of his hand into his pectorals. SBL leans into it, his own fingers catching at Chris' belt and pulling his hips in tight, sliding his thumbs over the top of Chris' waistband so that they're pressing into the hollow of his hips. Chris goes from semi-hard to Iron Man in about half a second; SBL's thumbs are warm and rough, callused around the edges from turning pages, and they rasp against Chris' smooth underbelly like the best kind of premonition.

Sexy Basement Librarian gets his fingers under the edge of Chris' shirt, and Chris scrambles for the buttons under his fingers. They're small and fiddly and he fumbles with them until he hears him begin to laugh under his breath. The puffs of air against the side of his neck tickle, so Chris bites down on a conveniently located earlobe in revenge, smiling around his grip as the other man gives a full body shudder, then begins to unbutton himself with alacrity.

It seems like this, whatever it is, is really happening- it's time to go big or go home, so Chris wrestles his sweat-damp t-shirt off over his head, then grabs at the button-down in front of him to pull it off over SBL's wrists. There's a long moment when he's caught in his shirt, and Chris may or may not seize it to lean down and lick his way across the front of SBL's threadbare undershirt. It's so thin that Chris can feel the individual hairs on the other man's chest, the hardened round of his nipple that rises under the wetness of his breath, the salty circles as he noses into an armpit.

It's at this point that SBL manages to free himself from the cage of his shirt with an impressive wriggle, and slams Chris up against the end of a shelving unit (American Lit: Scarlet Letter through Moby's Dick). Somewhere a book falls, and Chris has to repress a slightly hysterical giggle at the complete incongruity of the whole situation. What would Gatsby say?

He's derailed from his contemplation of the vagaries of characterization by a hand on his dick, pressing down hard. His legs spread involuntaraily and his head cracks back against the metal shelving unit with a bang. It hurts, and he must whimper, because a second later he's being pulled down to have a soft kiss pressed against the crown of his head. There's a pause, a lovely moment thick with heat and patience where their eyes meet, and then that glorious mouth is on his again, almost distracting him from the hand at his zipper.

Almost.

The fingers wedging their way into the slot between his flies are as long and insistent as they had been in his most elaborate fantasies; there's already a rough, dry, fingertip curling itself inside the opening at the front of his briefs, and he shudders against the lines of cool metal behind him as it slides in to pull at the skin behind his balls. There's a stifled moan against his clavicle, and Chris realizes that he's sunk the fingers of his left hand so hard into Sexy Librarian's hair that it must be pulling. Not that he seems to mind, if the way his long, pale, neck is arching is any indication. It's like an engraved invitation, complete with a smudge of ink just below SBL's left ear. Chris wouldn't want to be rude, turning down a plated feast like this one, so he leans in to press his teeth against the skin in front of him, his lips murmuring around the smudged outline until it blurs against his tongue. Librarian moans again, pressing Chris's body solidly against the much-abused shelving unit with a determined aggression that is completely at odds with the vulnerable line of his neck beneath Chris' mouth.

The hand at his crotch is dexterous and demanding, and Chris can feel a sudden rush of warm air against his flesh as his swollen dick and balls are pulled through the front of his briefs and cupped in those roughened hands. It's unfair what those fingers are doing to him; the way they work their way up and down the line of his cock, twisting as they turn, is reducing him to complete incoherency.

He's only just gotten the top two buttons of the fly on the ridiculously tight jeans in front of him undone when he finds himself being unceremoniously dragged by the belt loops down the aisle. His hands fall away from the prize, and he whines in annoyance as he stumbles along behind SBL, who is apparently a man on a mission. They clatter to a stop at the end of the reference desk, and Chris is suddenly released as SBL goes diving behind the counter to rummage in a drawer. A moment of frantic rustling yields to a sudden muffled noise of triumph, and Chris only has a moment to appreciate the gleam in the one dark eye he can see before he is abruptly spun around and pinned to the front of a half full shelving cart. He gasps, his hands grappling for purchase on the metal ends of the cart as his jeans and briefs are dragged sharply to his knees. The sound of a plastic cap echoes in the darkness, and his nose is assaulted with the scent of cocoa butter as the tell-tale squelch of a small bottle of hand lotion yields up its greasy contents. He nearly chuckles, but the sudden grip of a well-greased palm between his thighs has him moaning instead and tightening his grip as a slippery finger wriggles up to slide questioningly between his asscheeks.

He can't seem to make his mouth spit out the words _"Oh, God, yes"_ , so he spreads his legs as far as he can in the universally accepted gesture for _"fuck. me. now."_ , and leans forward. The slap on his bare butt comes as a total shock, making him slam a palm against the cinder block wall for balance, but the noise he makes must sounds like some sort of encouragement, because another smack lands on his other cheek, the skin warming nicely in response. The finger that had been rubbing firmly along his cleft uses the distraction of the third smack to slip its way in, pressing and making him arch his back, throw his head back to rest on the heated skin of the shoulder behind him. He thrusts his ass back, groping ineffectually behind him with one hand as he searches for SBL's dick, but gives up and flings his hand back to brace on the wall as one finger becomes two and he pushes up onto his tiptoes, a warm hand coming around to cup his cock and protect it from the row of books pressing into his waist.

He's about to protest when he feels an unmistakable pressure pressing between his thighs, hot and thick and oh so fucking good. He knows he's crossed the line from wanton into shameless as he arches even further, tipping his head and panting as the fingers inside him pick up the pace of the dick thrusting harder and faster between his sweat and lotion slicked thighs.

It's over almost before it's begun, a sudden stuttering of hot panted breath and shivering muscles as his nails scrabble futilely at concrete and metal. The body behind him stiffens and jerks, hands clutching at him as a warm wetness begins to drip between his legs. They collapse forward, Chris steadfastly ignoring the dig of a dictionary spine into his unprotected gut as they let their breaths even and their heartrates settle.

A moment passes, two, and then the weight is peeled stickily off his back. He can hear rummaging in the desk again, and by the time he has managed to stand up right and haul his pants up around his hips, there's a hand proffering a convenient fist-full of wet wipes and a face offering an amused smirk in the near dark. He takes them, turning to mop himself up and put himself away, tossing the used fistful into the metal trash can beside the desk.

A sudden snicker from behind him makes him turn. He raises an eyebrow, and Sexy Basement Librarian gingerly holds up a book between two fingers.

Chris squints, then begins to laugh.

SBL grins, and slaps him on the back, handing him his bag and fishing for the library keys as he keeps the book pinched loosely in his grip. They walk together out the door, and as they pass the dumpster, SBL gives a rueful shake of his head as he tosses the dripping volume in.

"Poor Holden Caufield."


End file.
